Love and Drugs
by NocheKrovoche
Summary: "Love is chemically similar to a drug addiction." Only rated T because of implied drug abuse.


**Love and Drugs**

**By: NocheKrovoche**

_-None of the characters are mine, nor is the 1st sentence in the story._

_-.-.-.-.-.-_

"Love is chemically similar to a drug addiction."

When he first read it, he was six, and had no need of the information as of yet, but he tucked it in a special place in his mind palace just the same. Later, he would be greatly thankful for himself that he did, but not when he was fifteen.

The moment he stepped out of the classroom, he was jumped by three jocks from the football team. They gave him a black eye, broken rib, and a split lip. That was for being a smartass and trying to break up their captian's relationship with his girl. In his defense, he wasn't trying to do that really. It was just a consequence of his observations. But that moment made him think, for the first time, what was so grand about being in a relationship-about love? Surely it was worth a bit of his attention, it was all they were raving about. So he decided to investigate further.

He comes across a spot of cocaine there in the locker room, inside one of the socks. He was just going to spy at them, and decided to hide himself in the mop closet, when a burly guy came in the room. He looked agitated and pretty whacked out as he sloppily opened his locker and took his stash, snorting a bit and running back out hastily.

Ah, so he was right when he deduced that three months ago. Surely some of his friends would have their own stash. The big guy was just too simple minded to have capacity to hide it well from them. So it was not surprising that he found some stuffed inside the sock of what he deduced was his friend's.

Then a niggling inside his head made him remember the little innocent statement. But he pushed it away, because he needed full use of his mind if he were to make this experiment work. Yes, this would keep the boredome at bay-for a few days at least.

The next day, he went and got himself a girlfriend. His youthful knowledge of love was very simplistic, that loving someone is the same as being loved. It was just the feeling of love that he needed anyway, and he felt that a week-long trial period is sufficient to give him that. It was with this misguided notion that he embarked on claiming Jessica Ross to be his unfortunate victim.

It wasn't that hard, he just needed to be less himself and more idiotic. He almost ruined it buy gagging a bit at his words when he was wooing her, but that was alright. It made him look adorable, she said, and he wondered briefly of her sanity. She was pretty plain, the little lass, and has a brain a half less than normal, but perfect for his experiment.

It would have been funny to an outsider, seeing him run around with an impossibly perky blonde at his side. But not to him. It made everything difficult for him. He had to constantly tell her where he was, who he's with, what time she could see him, and when he doesn't reply fast enough, she reigns all hell's fire on him. There's got to be something wrong there somewhere.

Though, sometimes, it could also be pleasant as well. Like she would look fondly at him, even when he's just snapped at her, or when she'd lightly run her fingers through his hair when she thinks he's asleep. There were moments of brief contentment that he thinks life could be very good like that. But it never lasts, because for every act of love she would grace him, she would give him many more reasons to hate her. So after a week and a half, he finally breaks up with her, earning himself a red cheek for an entire day.

He was eternally glad when she finally left him alone, and decided it was now time for the next part of his experiment. The following week, he used the cocaine. That's when everything went downhill for him. Or uphill, depending on who is asked.

He's seen how people do it, and they make it look so easy, snorting the white chalky powder up their nostrils, but nothing prepared him for the painful constriction of his nasal passages as it detected the foreign substance. He gags and coughs as his eyes watered. There was simply no pleasure in that experience, he thinks morosely while wiping his runny nose on his sleeves.

Sherlock waited in anticipation for the drug took effect. Seconds turned to minutes, his breathing became uneven, sweat forming on his forehead and upper lip, and he was keenly aware of his brain going haywire trying to catalogue as much of this new information as possible, until suddenly,...everything stops.

He slowly opened his eyes, not even remembering when he closed them. He felt like his head was full of fluff, as if restraining the proverbial gears from moving, but that's alright, he would gladly cut off his head if it would make him this happy, he thinks. Steel-grey eyes watched as everything in his vision felt calm, nothing jumped up to him declaring its facts.

It scared him too, that there was such a thing that could make him lose his gift-even if it's only temporary. His genius that he wielded like some kind of superpower, was paralyzed. And he couldn't understand how something that felt as wonderful as this could be bad. Mycroft always looked down on everyone for not having a brain that works 24/7 like them. He'll bet his rare bee collection that the fat pig never experienced this kind of peacefulness. All quite and still.

Without the subtlety with which it came, he was unceremoniously slammed back into reality-his personal hell. His eyes snapped open, suddenly aware of his surroundings; noise returning and he could feel the cogs in his head turning again. He was rapidly assaulted with every varying kind of information, like waves crashing in mercilessly on the shore. His mind going on an overdrive as he tried to right what the drug has tipped over in its wake.

Then, he felt it. The need to take another hit, to snort another line of that powdery white crystal. It is a craving so powerful than he can ever imagine, something he couldn't-or wouldn't want to control because he knows what it is. It's his freedom. And there can be no doubt. Drugs are better.

But as with everything else that he has tried to get rid of the infernal curse, it crashes down, burns him, and cripples him beyond repair. It reminds him that there is no escape, just like the four white walls of the hospital room he's in, hooked to various medical equipment to keep him alive. But even at the brink of death, he doesn't forget how it felt. The feelings stay with him, etched in his memory, and claws at him during his boredom, even though he knows he can't-he shouldn't. There is nothing grand about death.

Over the years, he found other ways to achieve the same high without as much side-effects. Sherlock also found a way to use his gift to his advantage-not just for personal gain, though that was number one on his list- but as a means of living as a consulting detective. The only one in the world.

There were many times during that time that he'd come across the same inconspicuous line he had read as a child, and he'd always think that they were wrong. Drugs were better. But it was no longer something he needed to prove to himself, so he tucks it back at his mind palace again, just in case he does something stupid like feeling love.

A short while later, he meets Dr. John Watson, a retired army doctor with an unassuming presence that slowly wormed his way into his well built defenses. For the next few years, there was no other thought that consumed him except for the war-damaged man. He never even realized when he stopped distracting himself with drugs because all he could focus on was John. There was just something about him that made him feel comfortable.

When John carries him to his room and he has the opportunity to feel the strong heartbeat against the muscled chest, all thoughts leave his mind and he's lulled to a peaceful sleep. Sometimes, he can even admit that he's in love.

After many ordeals and a handful of near-death experiences, they finally acknowledged their mutual need and affection for each other. By then, he had locked away all thoughts of his life before John and thinks this is perfect.

But it seemed that fate wasn't finished with him just yet.

It was right after another domestic fight that he remembers that sentence again, jumping up at him out of nowhere. And just like an automatic response, he thinks that drugs are better, though right now, there is an underlying resentment that fuels this thought. It never nags at him to eat, doesn't say stupid things, and isn't complicated with feelings. He huffs in his seat and splays out his legs on the sofa. Now he's getting upset at himself for the lapse in his memory, and thinking of ways to remedy the situation.

He could leave now and never return. But years of living and being dependant of another person may make it difficult. Hours passed and with each plan that would fail, his confidence dwindled and it frustrated him further. He was too wrapped up in his mind palace, thinking of the best solution, that he didn't hear the good doctor return.

"Stop sulking, Sherly. Take a bath, and we'll have dinner." John says, his soothing voice seemed tired, but the man addressed simply ignored him. Sherlock tensed when he heard an exasperated sigh and the floorboards creaking as the army man came into the room. He braced himself for another round of screaming, but he was suddenly surprised when he felt arms wrap lovingly around him. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. You know I am." he starts "I just worry about you so much. And I know I go a bit too far sometimes, but you know I only do this because I love you. No matter what I say or do, I will always love you."

Sherlock blushes a cute shade of red from the last confession, and he's at a loss of words. Instead, he turns and brings their mouth closer-John knows his way of apologizing, because he's John after all. He looks at the graying blond hair of his companion and knows that he's caused some of those too.

At that moment, he realized of course they were wrong. It was not the same. Simply too different.

Drugs don't hug him, kiss him, or whisper endearing words at his ear when he gets nightmares.

It doesn't make him as happy as John does, he thinks as guilt pooled at the pit of stomach. He looks deep into those warm honey colored eyes and just _knew._ Love was infinitely better.

This time, he takes that thought and stitches it right next to the first one and locks them together in his chest.

John is always better.

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**A/N** : Whew! I'm a little scared of what people will say about this story, because it's the first one I'd publish after 2 years of literally not writing anything. I'm a bit rusty with-well everything-but I hope it is to your liking. If not, feel free to tell me about it too. I'm trying out a new writing style too, so any feedback would be much appreciated. Thank you!


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